


Ave Atque Vale

by Mertiya



Series: A Study Into Darkness [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Trek
Genre: Brotherly Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:12:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2031495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things are beginning to settle down for Khan's former crew, but when Molly finds Sherlock deeply angry and upset, she sets out to do what she can to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ave Atque Vale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earlyable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlyable/gifts).



                  Molly pressed the door-chime in the front of Sherlock’s new lodgings. It had been nearly a year since all of them had undergone a series of operations and drug regimens to remove the effects of what had been done to them, and, in that time, Molly felt that she had begun to adjust to the strange future.

                  It was the date of their monthly dinners, which had started as a celebration the day Sherlock was released—the last of any of them—and had gradually become a tradition.  Greg was not with her; he was a little overwhelmed with his work at the Academy as a guest lecturer, but she was planning to give his excuses.

                  The door made its usual soft, querying noise, which Molly always expected to be a doorbell and never was.  There was a long pause, and then Sherlock’s voice sounded from inside, “Go away!” He sounded angry, a ferociousness evident in his voice that she had not heard so close to the surface since Starfleet had pronounced him “cured.”

                  She nearly turned and went away, but she steeled up her resolve and called out, “Um?  It’s…Molly?”

                  There was a growl of anger from behind the door, and the sound of something smashing.  Molly flinched in concern, wondering if she ought to go and get somebody, but not really knowing who.  Before she could decide, the door opened to reveal John, his mouth set in a grim line. “Sorry, Molls,” he said. “Dinner’s off tonight.”

                  “Wh-what’s wrong with Sherlock?” she asked hesitantly.

                  John glanced behind him, called out, “I’ll be back in in a minute,” then stepped out and let the door shut behind him.  He leaned against the wall with a distressed expression on his face.  “It’s his brother’s birthday—Mycroft?”

                  Molly nodded tentatively.  She had met the elder Holmes brother a few times—once or twice when he had visited Sherlock at the morgue, and once when Sherlock had been involved in a particularly dangerous international case.  In fact, she had spent an uncomfortable afternoon imprisoned with him before they had managed to free themselves, just before Sherlock arrived to rescue them.

                  “He’s—sad because Mycroft’s dead?” she ventured.  Hardly a difficult assumption, since everyone Molly had ever known, other than the seventy involved in the Baskerville Project, was three hundred years dead and buried.

                  John shook his head.  “Ha, I wish,” he muttered.  He looked rather black and furious as well.  “It was Mycroft who got us into this whole mess, you know.  They weren’t exactly close, but—Sherlock feels betrayed, I think.  Furious. Can’t understand why Mycroft would let some of that—“ he waved his hand in the air, “—stuff happen, you know? Well, he was always a prick.”

                  “Oh,” said Molly.  Sherlock’s brother had been involved with the British government, of course, so it made sense that he had had something to do with the Baskerville Project.  And no wonder Sherlock felt betrayed—she felt a sick sense of betrayal rising in her own stomach.  But it just didn’t seem—right.  “Are—are you sure?” she asked hesitantly.

                  John shot her a hard look.  “I know you like to think the best of people.  Hell, so do I.  But he was the one who fetched us, and his signature was on all the authorizations. I just can’t understand what kind of man it takes to do that to his little brother.”

                  Molly nodded slowly.  “I’ll come back next month,” she said, with a forced smile.  “I’m so sorry I bothered you.”

                  John shook his head.  “You’re fine, Molly.  Just bad luck,” he said, and she nodded again, and then hurried away, the thoughts spinning around and around in her brain.

                  It didn’t sound like Mycroft.  The beginning, maybe.  Trying to get Sherlock to work for the country, that was certainly a thing he would do. But she had seen what those drugs started to do to Sherlock, and she just couldn’t believe that Mycroft would have let the experiment continue if it had been in his power to do so. Molly’s chin firmed as she considered where to go next.

~

                  The door sounded over the quiet strumming of Spock’s Vulcan lyre; he paused and set it down on top of the PADD he had been using to compose, wondering who his unexpected visitor could be.  Uhura and most of the rest of his friends from aboard the _Enterprise_ were celebrating their shore leave with copious amounts of synthehol and would probably not return until late. Spock often accompanied them, as he enjoyed their company, but he had been surprisingly tired this evening and had begged off.  So it was no one he could have expected.

                  His mind was still ticking through possibilities when he opened the door to see that none of them had been correct.  He almost did not recognize the young woman standing outside; she had always been somewhat retiring, and she was even less remarkable in a standard-issue jumpsuit with her hair pinned back on her head. “Ms. Hooper,” he said after a moment.

                  “Um, Mr. Spock, hi.”  Her hands twisted nervously.  “I didn’t know how to reach you on the holophone—I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

                  He shook his head.  “You are perfectly welcome.  Would you care to come in?”

                  “Oh! Thank you.  I-I just—well—I thought you might be able to help me,” she continued, edging in the door.

                  He raised an eyebrow at her.  “I would be glad to aid you in any way in which I have the capacity.”

                  “W-well, it’s sort of a historical question.  I—I know you were the one who found all of the records about the Baskerville Project, and you’ve seen inside all of our heads, of course, and—damn, I’m making a hash of this, I’m sorry.”  He waited patiently for her to gather her thoughts and continue speaking, which, after a minute, she did.  “I would like to know if you can find out anything about what happened to a man called Mycroft Holmes,” she said, and Spock nodded.

~

                  Sherlock did not want speak; he did not want to move.  More than anything, he wanted the cocaine. A high dosage, enough to leave his brain racing and skittering around over other things, things that were not his damn dead brother.  John was doing his best to remain calm and upbeat, but Sherlock knew he was being a trial. His emotions still seemed out of control, not so much since his stint in a Starfleet hospital, but still not _him_ , not something he could divorce himself from.

                  So he raged.  He raged and he broke things, knowing they could be repaired, knowing that John would not judge him for it.  Eventually, he wore himself out, threw himself down in his chair (facsimile of his old armchair, very good facsimile, but they didn’t manage the smell it used to have, that hideous concoction of chemicals he had spilled there over the years, mixed with the scent of John’s cologne), and did not move or speak.

                  John moved about the room, sorting out their business— _consulting detective for Starfleet, interesting work most of the time, nothing interesting now, all colorless, all grey_ —and Sherlock tried to ignore his thoughts, the frustrated, unrestrained pain inside his stomach.

                  The noise of the door sounded again; Sherlock growled in frustration. Wouldn’t they all just leave him be in his misery?  John answered it; Molly again.  Molly’s voice hopeful, nervous—she had brought something for him to look at. He wanted to send her scuttling home, licking her wounds, but—no, that would be Wrong.  The thought of Molly’s face crumpling in pain gave him an unexpected twinge of guilt, and he said nothing.  She and John exchanged a few, meaningless words; she gave him something “for Sherlock” and then she left again.

                  Silence reigned.  Rustling of pages—Molly knew he currently preferred hard copies even though he was good with a PADD.  Stupid, strange brain, stupid strange preferences.  He had never wanted to work with a physical copy before, three hundred years ago, had always scorned the heavy weight of paper for the easy weightlessness of electronic data.  Things changed.  His brain was different, now, molded and shaped and broken.  Less broken, with John here.

                  John’s voice, no words, just a soft little gasp.  “Sherlock, you need to look at this.”

                  He did not respond, but John still approached and pressed the sheaf of papers into his hands.  He looked down at it automatically, somehow swallowing his blinding rage at the sight of the name standing out in big bold letters on the first page.  _Mycroft Holmes_.

                  Began as a biography.  Born, Feb. 12, 1970.  Died 2020—year made him pause.  Midway through the Baskerville Experiments.  Sherlock felt a strange, unreasonable surge of some emotion he could not identify. He flipped feverishly through the pages.  Long list of Mycroft’s accomplishments, described by an author who admired him. Pages from some obscure textbook perhaps?  Source not given, but clearly well-researched.  Mycroft’s fondness for cake and blueberries noted jovially.

                  Last paragraph of the biography section. 

“Any account of Mycroft Holmes cannot be complete without a supposition about his death.  Though it was never recorded, it is generally accepted [23, 57-85] that his death occurred sometime in the year 2020, almost certainly at the hands of the Baskerville’s Project’s leader, Dr. Violet Saunders [42]. Witnesses recount that after the week of May 13th, 2020—” _week when the psychological experiments started to become unbearable, his behavior unraveling, his control breaking_ “—Mycroft Holmes was never seen, though his signature continued to appear on official documents. It is likely, however, that Saunders was able to forge it.  The most likely hypothesis is that Mycroft Holmes was killed for opposing the continued experiments on his younger brother.”

                  Strange. His hands were trembling. Still another page left in the document.  Not part of the biography.  Letter, blurring strangely in front of his eyes.

                  _My Dear Brother,_

_If you are reading this, presumably I have passed on from this vale of tears to what I sincerely hope is a better world.  No doubt you are pleased that my long nose can no longer intrude upon your business.  I do not wish to be maudlin, but much as my material affairs must be wrapped up, so must my emotional ones.  My apologies for using such a despised word._

_Sherlock, you and I have never been the kind of brothers that others speak of as close.  Nevertheless, I wish you to know that I admire your intellect and your capacity for emotion, much though you may deny its existence.  Though we have grown apart since we were young, I have never lost a certain fondness for your company—mock me if you will.  And, I must confess, some of the time it was myself and not you who upset Mummy._

_Not always, of course._

_Regards,_

_Mycroft_

                  Sherlock held the page for a long time before folding it over carefully and placing it on the table in front of him.

                  “Sherlock?” John asked.  “Are you all right, love?”

                  His breath came out strangely, a long sigh.  “Hm?  Yes, of course I’m all right, John.  It’s good to know that Mycroft was not responsible for the atrocities we suffered, is it not?  Insufferable though he was.”

                  “Mm,” said John, resting his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  “Should I leave you alone for a little while?”

                  Sherlock set the bundle of papers down beside the letter, and a small scrap he had not seen dislodged from them and slid out onto the table.  It was a small snapshot of Mycroft’s face. He reached out and picked it up without thinking, turned it over in his hands.  “Yes,” he said finally.  “Thank you, John.  I think I’d like to spend my brother’s birthday with him.”

                  John kissed him gently on the top of his head.  “I’ll be in the other room if you need anything.”

                  Sherlock nodded, waiting until the other was out of the room before he sat back and held up the photograph.  “Happy birthday, brother.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just me trying to give Sherlock a little closure on the Mycroft front. Requested by earlyable--I hope you like it! For anyone interested, "Ave Atque Vale", which translates as "Hail and Farewell", is from a poem by Catullus on the death of his brother.


End file.
